Lone Star Mountain þreir

The smell of her had been strange, to be sure, but the sight of her froze Dusty Rose in his tracks. There was something almost familiar in his face, but in that moment, he did not recognize her as dog. A dog to him was a pitbull — a breed for which he had nothing but fear and contempt. Or it was a chihuahua, which made enticing sounds when they were hunted. Or it was the exotic bride of some lucky sonnuva bitch he met on the water hunts — damas de crianza. Women of pedigree. Women with long, pronghorn legs and faces narrower even than his.

It was with these women in mind that Dusty Rose decided what she must be. The child of such a union might have her mother's soft fur, but with the stockier build that — with a jolt — the coywolf realized his wife possessed. They were not the same breed, but he decided right away that she must have children of men in her immediate ancestry, if she was not some strange breed he'd not yet encountered all on her own.

And so, very narrowly, he kept himself from asking, What the fuck are you? Instead, the question was,

"Jesus. What are you doing all the way out here?"

Was she a runaway bride? A lost child? There was something puppyish about her face, though he was uncertain whether or not he should trust this. Those exotic brides never seemed to age past sub-adult until, suddenly, there was grey on their muzzles.